[ithinkimissyou]

Originally Posted by floatingslowly

after listening to the entire thing last night, I definitely need MORE.

is it wrong that it makes feel slightly paranoid?

The paranoia is part of the attraction

Anyway, here's an extract from a novel by John Le Carre - which played a big part in starting my interest in Number Stations and how spies got their messages.

Three minutes. I always like to cut it fine. Pym wiped his face clean and from an inside pocket drew his faithful copy of Grimmelshausen's Simplicissimus, bound in worn brown buckram and much travelled. He laid it ready on the desk beside a pad of paper and a pencil, crossed the room and knelt down in front of dear old Winston's wireless, spinning the bakelite tuning dial until he had the wavelength.

Volume down. Switch on. Wait. A man and a woman discussing in Czech the economics of a fruit cooperative. Discussion fades in midsentence. Time signal announces evening news. Stand by. Pym is calm. Operational calm.

But he is also a little bit transported. There is a serenity here that is not quite of this world, a hint of mystical affinity in his youthful loving smile that says, 'Hullo there' to someone not quite of this earth. Of all those who have known him, other than this extra-terrestrial stranger, perhaps only Miss Dubber has seen the same expression.

Item one, harangue against American imperialists following breakdown of latest round of arms talks. Sound of page turning, signal for get ready. Noted. You are going to talk to me. I am thankful. I appreciate this gesture. Item two coming up. Presenter introduces college professor from Brno. Good evening, Professor, and how is the Czech Secret Service this evening? The professor speaks, a passage for translation. First sentence: The talks have ended in deadlock. Ignore. In another bid. Write it down. Slowly. Don't rush. Patience again while we wait for the first numeral. Here it is. A fifty-five-year-old welder from Plzen. He switched off the wireless and, pad in hand, returned to his desk, eyes straight ahead of him. Opening his Grimmelshausen at page fifty-five he found five lines down without even counting and on a fresh sheet of paper wrote out the first ten letters of that line, then converted them to numerals according to their positions in the alphabet. Subtract without carrying. Don't reason, do it. He was adding again, still not carrying. He was converting numbers into letters. Don't reason. NEV...VER...RMI...IND...DEW... There's nothing here. It's gobbledegook. Tune in again at ten and take a fresh reading. He was smiling. He was smiling like a saint when the agony is over. The tears were starting to his eyes. Let them. He was standing, holding the page in both hands above his head. He was weeping. He was laughing. He could scarcely read what he had written.

NEVER MIND, E. WEBER LOVE YOU ALWAYS. POPPY.

'You cheeky sod,' he whispered aloud, punching away more tears. 'Oh Poppy. Oh my.'

From, "A Perfect Spy".